


Honey for the Bees

by tbazzsnow (Artescapri)



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bees, Better Communication, Boys In Love, Domestic Fluff, Domestic Moments, Donuts, M/M, Post Wayward Son, Post-Book 2: Wayward Son, Simon and Baz are in a much better place, Some Fluff, Some Romance, a bit of angst, misunderstandings still happen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:00:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23727217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artescapri/pseuds/tbazzsnow
Summary: It's not been quite a year since their trip to America but Simon and Baz are in a much better place as far as things are concerned, particularly as far as their relationship. A morning trip to the market sparks some good memories for Simon but inadvertently sets in motion some angsty thought spirals for Baz. A Saturday morning in spring for Simon and Baz, with moments of misunderstanding, but far more capability to talk things out than they've ever had before.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 39
Kudos: 257





	Honey for the Bees

**Author's Note:**

> A very belated birthday fic for the lovely giishu, based on a conversation we had months ago about a Simon Snow fancast, gold necklaces, post Wayward Son mindsets, and domestic moments.

**Simon**

I like to come down to the Spitalfields market on weekends. To grab fresh falafel wraps and Thai fruit tea for myself. Decadent donuts for Baz, what with that insatiable sweet tooth of his. 

And I could use the exercise–it’s the first sunny day we’ve had in weeks and I don’t mind getting out of the flat for a bit. 

Penny’s holed up in her room, cramming for finals. Said she’d been up all night but the pillowcase creases on her face argued against that, I’d say. She’s a bit wound up about it all. I’m glad she got some sleep. 

I promised to bring her a chai if she spelled my wings away. 

I’m only taking two classes this spring term, so I’m not as spun up as she is. I’ve stayed on top of my work. It helps having Baz come over to study at our place most nights. It’s distracting as hell but he’s such a swot he won’t actually let me get side-tracked. He raps on the table with a “ _focus now, Simon, or we’ll be here all night”_ and puts his work aside to run through my lecture notes with me. Baz can make anything sound interesting. 

Merlin, I love him. 

I always know we’re done for the night when he raises that eyebrow of his and gives me one of those long, cool looks that does nothing but get me all hot and bothered (he knows it too, the insufferable prat), and then starts to put his laptop away. _“Time for a break, Simon.”_

That’s usually when Penny snorts and says something rude, if she’s at the kitchen table with us, then escapes to her room with an eye roll and a put-upon sigh. I’ve caught her winking at Baz as she goes though, so I know it’s all just for show. 

I don’t let it get to me. I know she’s almost as happy to have him around as I am. 

I don’t object to her hiding out in her room, mind you. Study breaks with Baz involve a lot of snogging and I’m not about to complain about that. 

And lately, more often than not, they involve Baz spending the night. 

In the months since we’ve been back from America we’ve been working up to it, little by little. Back to Baz spending the night. To me holding him in my arms as I fall asleep. To late night kisses and morning breath ones too. To the comforting sensation of his back against my chest and my arm wrapped around his waist, face buried in the silky waves of his hair. 

My hand splayed over his chest, feeling the slow, steady thrum of his heart. 

The slide of our mouths, the firm grip of his hands on my hips, those elegant fingers finding their way down . . . fuck, I can’t be thinking of _that_ now. Not in the middle of a bloody Saturday morning market. 

Baz spent the night at his place last night, working on a group project. Probably why I can’t keep my mind off the thought of him this morning.

I missed him. 

I shake my head and shove my hands in my pockets. I’ve got to keep my wits about me. Donovan’s will run out of those Nutella donuts he’s so fond of, if I don’t hurry. 

It’s when I’m leaving—my belly full of crusty falafel, Penny’s chai in one hand and the box of donuts in the other—that I see the little stall to the side. I’m not sure why I stop. I don’t usually look at much other than food, not unless Penny or Baz are with me. 

But something’s caught my eye. The shape of the pendant hanging at eye level. 

It’s a miniature bee, exquisitely crafted in a warm, gold-toned metal, wings caught midair. It makes me think of the fat bees on Baz’s shirt—the one he was wearing the first time I saw him wrap his mother’s scarf over his hair, when we were in America. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that sight, not even when I’m a cranky old codger in a care home. 

I wish I had a photograph of it. 

The pendant is small but surprisingly detailed, set on a chain that looks sturdy enough for the likes of me. 

I don’t think about it much anymore, the cross I used to wear. It’s in a box, tucked away at the bottom of my dresser. Baz wouldn’t let me get rid of it. Said relics shouldn’t be binned. That’s not the real reason he wanted me to keep it around. I know I won’t ever need it, not with him. But if it makes him feel better knowing it’s around I can live with that.

I touch a finger to the bee. The vendor eyes me, a questioning look on his face. 

“How much?” 

“Fifteen quid.” 

That’s not bad. I can manage it. 

Having only two classes leaves me with a fair bit of time on my hands. Baz signed me up for some sessions at this martial arts studio—it’s run by someone Fiona knows from her herbalist days, so they’re not so fussed about my dragon bits, so to speak. I took a few classes last term and now I help out there. Get paid for it too. 

I tap the bee pendant, making it swing. Makes it almost seem as if it’s flying. 

“I’ll take it.” 

“You want it in a box, have it look nice?”

“No, I’ll just wear it.”

I put Penny’s chai and the donuts down at the edge of his display table and hand over the money. The chain’s long enough that I can slip it over my head and tuck it under my hoodie and shirt. The motion comes so naturally still, the almost-not-there weight of it on my chest deeply familiar. 

My cross used to make me think of Baz. I’d think about _why_ I was wearing it, think about him being a vampire, think about all the things that made me so obsessed with him, not understanding any of the impulses simmering beneath the surface. 

This makes me think of the noonday sun glinting off those huge sunglasses of his, the tilt of his head as he adjusted that blue scarf, the smoothness of his shirt in my hands as I pressed him against the car. 

Yeah, this is a hell of a lot better. 

Penny’s taken over the entire coffee table when I get home, laptop in front of her as she leans against the sofa, books and notebooks and papers scattered around in piles. 

Baz is curled up on the far end of the sofa, sock-clad feet just behind Penny, his laptop balanced on a cushion resting on his thighs. 

He looks up when I walk in. Probably heard me scrabbling with my keys, what with those super senses of his.The smile that comes over his face is instant, lips curving up, eyes wide and _happy._

Not guarded. Not questioning. Not even a glimmer of that wistfulness he’d try so hard to hide. Fuck, it’s good to see that. Just reminds me again how far we’ve come. 

I bend down to press a kiss to Baz’s forehead, right on that aristocratic brow of his, as I walk by him on my way to the kitchen. 

Yeah. I can do that now. 

Baz’s eyes close and he leans into it every time. I love that even more. 

I set Penny’s chai on the kitchen counter. There’s no safe space on the coffee table, not the way she’s got things piled everywhere. 

I've just set the donuts on a plate when I feel Baz’s arms slide around my waist and the weight of his chin on my shoulder. 

I lean back against his chest. 

I can do this now too. 

“You caught a whiff of the Nutella, didn’t you, you tosser. I was going to bring you a plate.”

Baz turns his head and brushes his lips over the edge of my hoodie, breathing his words into my skin. “I’d rather stay in here.”

I turn in his arms and then it’s him snogging me against the counter until Penny comes in search of her chai.

“Nicks and Slicks, how many times must I tell you two, not in the kitchen! You have plenty of places, not to mention a room of your own to defile, Simon.”

I attempt to disentangle myself from Baz’s embrace but he keeps his arm firmly wrapped around my waist, so I may as well just lean into him. “Why are you yelling at me, Pen? Baz is the one who followed me in here.”

“Traitor,” Baz says and slides his cool fingertips under my hoodie and shirt to pinch my waist. 

I used to be sensitive about that too, but the martial arts sessions have me back into near fighting form again. 

Baz has this way of running his hands along my sides. A way of resting his head on my belly and nuzzling his cheek against the roundness there that feels positively worshipful, so I can’t really let myself get fussed about it. 

Well, I mean, I _do_ get fussed about it, in a totally _turned the fuck on_ kind of way. 

Which I don’t need to be, in the middle of the kitchen, with Penny glaring at me.

I hold out the plate I’d put together before Baz distracted me. “Have a donut?”

She frowns. 

“Go ahead and have one, Bunce. Simon doesn’t believe in defiling food--it’s far too wasteful.” Baz plucks a donut from the top of the pile. “They’re Donovan’s Nutella. It’s a crime to even profane them with your thoughts.”

It should be criminal to look so sexy eating a fucking donut. The way Baz licks that trace of filling from the corner of his mouth is positively pornographic. 

Penny takes a donut and glares at me again. “Ugh, Simon, keep your eyes in your head.” She takes a bite, chews, swallows, and then apparently decides she’s not done giving me shit. “I never thought we’d find anything to divert your attention when there’s food around, but apparently I was wrong.” 

She winks at Baz, which is completely unfair. 

Because now he’s blushing a bit and blushing Baz is even harder to resist than Baz with chocolate hazelnut spread dotting his lips.

Except he’s just taken another bite of his donut, so now it’s both, and I can’t be faulted for leaning in to lick it off his lower lip which ends up with me giving him a bit of a chocolate laced snog.

“That’s it, I’m out,” Penny says, taking the rest of her donut and hightailing it out of the kitchen. “Refrain from doing unsanitary things on the counters!”

“Merlin, Penny!” I can feel my face heat up. 

“Duly noted, Bunce.” 

Baz rests his forehead against mine. I trace my finger down the buttons of his shirt, letting my hand rest against his stomach, gently rubbing circles there. I know he likes that. 

“You are an absolute menace, Simon Snow. Seducing me in full view of Bunce, with donuts and chocolate kisses.” 

I slip my fingers between the buttons of his shirt, his skin cool against them. He likes that too. 

And I like that intake of breath that comes from him when I do. 

“No one should be seducing a vampire in our kitchen!” Penny shouts from the other room. “Common decency in common spaces!”

“For Crowley’s sake,” Baz growls. He takes a step back and adjusts his shirt, face still a shade brighter than usual. 

I did that. It’s a heady sensation every time. That he _wants_ me and this is real. 

That we’ve made it. 

“Are you going to have a donut, or are these all for me?” Baz plucks another donut from the plate and proceeds to lick sugar from the top of it, just to drive me mad, the wanker. 

“Dream on.” Two can play at this game and even though I had falafel at the market I can never say no to a donut. 

Particularly when I can fuck with Baz while I eat it. 

I stare right at him as I slowly lick at the sugar topping. His eyes widen. _Good_. I take a bite, chew it ever so slowly, swallow. His eyes immediately go to my throat before darting back up. 

I hollow my cheeks as I suck some of the filling out. 

“Fucking hell, Simon!” He’s on me, pulling me to him by my belt loops. He takes a bite of the bit of my donut that’s nearest him, sugar crystals catching on his lips as he does and sending more of the filling my way. 

And now we’re reenacting that scene from Lady and The Tramp with this fucking donut. 

  
  


**Baz**

Simon has sugar and filling smeared across his mouth by the time my lips reach his and he tastes like chocolate and decadence. I lick it away and he pushes his mouth against mine and it’s all so fucking good, I’m melting into him, gripping his hips, pulling them against me, his tongue in my mouth and _fuck._

He’s enticing when he’s on the bloody sofa in his ratty pyjamas so right now, right here, he’s fucking mind-blowing. 

“You are going to end me, you gorgeous nightmare,” I mumble against his lips. 

The muppet bloody _laughs._ “It’s worth the trek to Spitalfields if it gets you like this.”

“It’s not the bloody donuts and you know it.”

“I know it.” His lips find mine again. His next words are breathed against me, feather-light, my skin tingling from the warm whisper of them. “We should take this to my room before we completely scandalize Penny and she spells us with something wicked.”

It wouldn’t be the first time.

Penelope Bunce is a fierce magician, I don’t mind saying it. But she is the _worst_ when it comes to Simon and me. At least when heavy snogging is involved. 

From her _“look but can’t touch”_ and _“knock it off’”_ to some of the newer ones she’s started using when she’s really irritated like _“wouldn’t touch him with a ten-foot pole”_ which makes it so we can hardly be in the same room together, what with how small their flat is. 

She usually reverses them fairly quickly--it’s just a point she’s trying to make, I get that. It’s just hard to resist him when he gets his hands on me. 

I missed his touch so much, for so long. 

She’s giving us a knowing look over the top of her glasses as Simon drags me through the living room. “Make sure you cast a good silencing spell, Baz! One of us is still revising for exams!” 

“On it, Bunce.”

I barely have time to pull my wand from my pocket before Simon slams his bedroom door shut and presses me against it. I tap my wand once against the doorframe with a mumbled **_“enjoy the silence”_ **and hope it’s enough. 

One of his hands is in my hair and the other has already managed to untuck my shirt, his warm fingers tracing searing patterns against my skin. My wand goes back in my pocket so I can devote all of my attention to him–my mouth on his, my hands under his hoodie, under his t-shirt, sliding against the heated smoothness of his skin so I can pull him closer. 

Simon’s leg slots between mine and then we’re just a messy tangle of lips and roaming hands, chests pressed against each other, hips shifting closer. 

It’s fucking glorious. 

A moment later he’s shifting away to scrabble at the hem of his hoodie, clumsily attempting to take it off. I’ve got no objections to that.

His t-shirt rides up, tantalizing me with a glimpse of his abdomen, the planes of his muscles flexing under that softness that’s still there. I can’t stop myself from reaching out to run a finger across his navel and then down along the faint line of silky fuzz that trails into his jeans.

He shivers at my touch, somehow managing to tangle himself up even more in his hoodie. 

I decide to put him out of his misery and help yank the hopelessly twisted hoodie off his head. I’m just about to let it drop to the floor when I see it. 

Simon’s t-shirt is rumpled and askew, the neckline shifted to one side, but the chain is unmistakable. 

It’s as if I’ve stepped on thin ice and plunged into the depths of a frigid lake. 

When did he start wearing his cross again? Why? How did I not notice? The questions race through my mind as I take in the painfully familiar sight of that chain resting against his skin.

“Baz?”

Simon’s voice breaks through my spiraling thoughts. His finger shifts a lock of my hair back and then his hand is resting against my cheek. “You ok?”

I’m not. I’m not fucking ok. Where’s the rattle in my jaw, the heated buzz that comes when his cross gets too close to my skin? I didn’t have any warning. 

_Why is he wearing it again?_

We’ve been so good. I thought we were in a better place, better than we’ve ever been, really. 

He’s not worn it . . . he’s not worn it in a very long time. 

I’m the one who asked him to keep it, _I know that._ I’m the one who kept him from giving it away. 

I thought . . . I thought . . . 

_He hid it away himself. All those months ago._

Simon’s been letting me touch him for months, inviting me to stay the night, cuddling me close in his bed. We’ve been moving towards more intimacy, the erotic gropefests I’d fantasized becoming our reality. 

Is that it? Is Simon expecting me to lose control if things go further? _I won’t bite. I won’t hurt him._ I’d swear that on my very soul, if I still had one. 

Simon is what gives me life, makes me feel alive. _I would never hurt him._

He’s wearing it again and _I don’t know why._

My vision blurs as I realize the tears are about to start. Fuck. 

I need to go. 

I need to go before I see it shining against his chest. Before I let myself acknowledge what this means.

Before I say something I’ll regret. 

Before I fall apart

Simon’s hand shifts to my shoulder, both hands now, and I think I actually might shatter at his touch. “Baz? Talk to me. What’s wrong?

For once, I don’t have any words. 

  
  


**Simon**

I don’t understand what’s happening. Things were good, like really good, and now Baz is staring at me like he’s seen a ghost. He’s got his arms crossed over his chest, hands gripping his elbows so tightly his knuckles are almost white. His shoulders are hunched and his eyes . . . well, I haven’t seen his eyes look like that since . . .

Since before. 

I’ve got a good grip on his shoulders now and I’m trying to get him to look at me but he’s staring at something over my left shoulder. 

I actually turn around to look behind me, like I might find a Visiting going on behind my back. 

There’s nothing but my rumpled bed. 

He’s still staring when I turn back to him. At my left shoulder, hair falling over his face again, a crease between his eyebrows I want to rub away. 

“Baz. Talk to me.”

I’m the one that shuts down like this. I’m the one whose brain stalls, who blinks out. 

Not Baz.

I bring my hands up and cup his cheeks, gently lifting his jaw with my thumbs until he’s facing me. He won’t meet my gaze.

“Baz.”

His tongue darts out to lick his lips, then he pulls the bottom one into his mouth and starts chewing on it, biting down so hard I think he’s going to draw blood. 

I go up on tiptoe and lean in to press my forehead to his, but Baz turns his face away so I end up awkwardly head-butting him in the ear instead.

He’s never done this before. He’s never gone in so deep I can’t find him. 

I feel so fucking helpless.

_Is this what it felt like for him? All those months? When I’d just hide away from the world, stuck inside my head._

Fuck. 

_Fuck._

I drop my hands down to his, still clutched around his elbows—my touch light, barely brushing his skin—and then I lean back to give him some space. 

“Baz, I’m right here.” My voice cracks as I say it.

There’s a single tear streaking down his cheek. Baz doesn’t wipe it away, just brings his shoulders closer in, wrapping his arms more tightly around himself, making himself smaller. 

I think that guts me the most. 

“Why now?” The words come out with a rasp that’s not anything like Baz’s usual tone. There’s no bite, no inflection, nothing. Flat and heavy. 

“I don’t follow.” I’ve got no idea what he means. 

Baz turns to face me and looks me in the eye for the first time since all this strangeness started. His eyes are grey and black and swirling with pain. The light makes the tear track on his face shimmer.

“Why. Now.” He repeats, and the words snap this time. 

“Why now what? I don’t get it. I’ve got no idea what you mean.” 

I don’t. I really don’t. One minute he was eagerly helping me pull my hoodie off, the next he was so far away that even touching him felt like I was grasping at a retreating mist, my fingers closing on air. 

Baz closes his eyes and takes a deep breath in, then blows it out, his chest rising and falling with the effort. “Why are you wearing it again?”

“Wearing what?”

“Crowley, Snow!” 

He’s not called me that in months, not in anything but a teasing way. There’s nothing remotely light-hearted about the way he says it now. It bites at me. 

“Baz, I’m serious. I don’t know what you’re getting at. So could you . . . I don’t . . . maybe, explain what you’re talking about?” I don’t like this. It’s making my heart pound and my head throb and I don’t like it when I don’t understand things. Particularly Baz-related things. 

My hands go up into my hair to tangle in my curls and I _yank_ on them, the momentary discomfort giving me an instant’s distraction from the rising dread that’s pooling in my stomach. 

We don’t do this anymore. Baz and I _don’t do this anymore_. 

“Baz. Please.” His eyes meet mine again and _fuck_ , it hurts to see the flat, pavement grey of them. No spark. Not even one of anger. 

His eyes close again and Baz leans his head back against my door, arms falling to his sides. He looks exhausted, any vestige of color drained from him. “Why are you wearing your cross again?” He breathes in and out, eyes distant and remote when he opens them again. “And why didn’t you tell me?”

What in the blazes is he talking about? “My cross? I’m not wearing my cross. It’s still in the bottom of my dresser, behind my socks.” This makes no sense. “I was the one that wanted to throw it away, remember? You’re the one who said I should keep it, Merlin knows why.”

I shouldn’t have said that. I regret it as soon as the words are out. I know better. I know how it would make me feel, when someone would repeat the things I’d said, to make some point. 

When Baz or Penny or even my therapist would.

I fucking _hated it._

Baz speaks before I have a chance to take it back. “You’re wearing it _now_ , Simon. I can see the bloody chain around your neck and all I’m asking is _why_? What have I done to make you feel you need to do that?”

Bleak. Fucking bleak. That’s the only way to describe how he looks, how he sounds. 

I know what crosses do to him, I know what _my cross_ did to him. Not so much the physical sensations from it, but what it _meant_ when I wore it. How I wanted to keep him away. 

Why would he think I’d willingly hurt him like that? We’re past this, I thought we were long past this kind of thing. 

I reach up to my t-shirt, to pull it aside, to show him there’s nothing there. 

I feel the chain under my fingertips and for a moment the world tilts and I feel like I’ve fallen through the looking glass where everything is upside down and nothing I know is true anymore. 

Until I remember. And the cold wash of relief that floods me almost makes me stumble as I cross the space between us and take his chilled hand in mine. 

I pull on the chain with my free hand until the pendant is dangling in the air between us. “It’s not my cross, Baz.” I shake the chain, so the bee swings in the air between us. “I didn’t even think.” The remorse comes now, in a flush inducing wave that leaves me smarting in its wake. 

It didn’t even cross my mind. Didn’t even have an idea of what the sight of a gold chain around my neck might do to Baz. 

It’s as if all the air’s been sucked out of the room, my throat scratchy and raw, like it used to be when I’d feel the Humdrum near.

_I was the Humdrum._

I’m still the fucking Humdrum, except instead of taking all his magic away I’ve sucked all the joy out of Baz instead. 

Fucking hell. 

He’s slack jawed, eyes following the bee as it pendulum swings in front of him. “Is that a _bee_?” 

“Yeah.” The word scrapes out of me.

He straightens his shoulders and narrows his eyes. “A bee.”

I rasp out another “Yeah,” and then an absolute fucking torrent of words comes pouring out of me. “I saw it at the market, it made me think of your shirt . . . made me think of that day and how much I fucking _wanted_ you. I didn’t think I deserved you, didn’t think you could be mine anymore because of what a fucking dud I was. . . . I saw it and it made me think of _you_ . . . you with your fucking headscarf and your shitty sword fighting skills and the way the fabric felt under my fingertips when I had you in my arms and _fuck,_ Baz.” 

My tail is lashing around my legs and even though my wings are still spelled I can feel them snap and flare, the movement stirring Baz’s hair. 

“A bee.” Baz repeats again and he reaches out a finger to touch the pendant. “A bloody, fucking bee.” He’s staring at me again, right at me this time, and my words dry up as I meet his eyes. 

Grey. Grey as the winter sea, grey as the horizon at dusk. Grey as only Baz’s eyes can be–flecks of blue and green and silver and I’m leaning forward into him, his arms coming around my shoulders as he presses his forehead to mine, the pendant falling from my hand to rest on my chest again. 

“Simon Snow, you practically gave my dead heart a fucking heart attack, you careless numpty.”

“‘M sorry.” It comes out mumbled. Baz’s arms grip me tighter, just a breath of space between us now. I wrap mine around his waist. 

“I’m the one who should apologize,” he says. “I immediately thought the worst of you, Simon, my mind went right to that place it used to go, when I expected you to do things just to hurt me. It was unwarranted and unfair and I can’t tell you how awful I feel for doubting you like that.” There’s a pause. “I’m so very sorry.”

We stay like that for a moment, silent as I try to bring words together in my head. “It was pretty shit of you to think that,” I say and I can feel his grip loosen as I say it so I keep going. “But I get it, ok, I can see why you did.” I frown at him. “And I’m not saying I should have expected it because I’m not good enough for you or I’m a terrible boyfriend or any of that rot. Because we’re past that, yeah?”

It takes a moment but then he nods. 

“But I should have thought about it. I should have realized seeing a chain around my neck might make your mind go there, because you’re a fucking melodramatic git, and I’m sorry I didn’t think that through. I should have.” I can’t help but smile a bit. “Because if there’s one thing I do know, Baz Pitch, it’s that you are an over-the-top bastard and I wouldn’t have you any other way.”

There’s just a hint of a lift to the corner of his mouth. “And you are a clueless wanker, Simon Snow, but fuck I wouldn’t know what to do with myself without you.” 

And there it is. That spark in his eyes. That smoldering look that makes him look like he’s about to attack me. 

“Good thing you’ve got me to keep you occupied, then, _honey_.'' Baz chokes off a snort as I go up on tiptoe to press my lips to his and it’s everything good about us again, his hands sliding under my shirt and my fingers tangling in his hair and I pull and he makes that sound. 

It’s a bit before we come up for air again and Baz is every bit as breathless as I am. I drop my head on his shoulder and breathe him in. I feel his lips move against my hair. “I was actually quite fond of that shirt.”

I start laughing. I can’t help it. “I wish I had a photograph of you, in that shirt, with that scarf on your head, those movie-star sunglasses of yours.” I brush my nose against his neck. 

“I used to say that to you, remember? _‘Take a picture, Snow, it’ll last longer,_ ’ when you’d get in stalking mode and couldn’t take your eyes off me.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve got the real thing now, haven’t I? That’s better than any photograph.” 

I tilt my head up to kiss him again. Baz’s fingers trace along the chain, stopping when they reach the pendant. He taps his index finger on it once, then mutters against my lips. “A fucking bee.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Title from the song Honey for the Bees by Alison Moyet.


End file.
